The Chick Flick Moments Dean Winchester Never Had
by Indigo2831
Summary: Dean Winchester hates chick-flick moments, but his life is full of them. This is a series of shorts about the moments Dean will never admit happened. Shameless Winchester angst & schmoop. NOW: Dean stops hunting to become a chef. No, really. Major Angst.
1. Eclipse

Ideally, this story would be called "The Chick Flick Moments that (Never) Happened to Dean Winchester" but the character limit in the title box had other ideas, lol. Again, this is a series of unrelated shorts about the angst, adorable and dramatic moments in Dean's (and of course, Sam's) life. Oh, and as awesome as Season Five is, there won't be any spoilers.

Please let me know what you think, love it or hate it. Thanks!

* * *

Eclipse

Dean's father was a belligerent, pigheaded, cold, slave-driving sonofabitch, who put weapons in the hands of childhood sons and trained them for war. Who drank too much on birthdays and anniversaries and didn't care about holidays. Who was so obsessed with protecting his children and strangers, it left him twisted and dark. But sometimes, John Winchester wasn't so bad. Like an eclipse, something slipped into alignment, fleetingly blocking the grief, the intensity fading, and Dean got his father back. His little brother only knew John Winchester, the gruff sonofabitch who was gutted and embittered by revenge and saw things as innocuous as soccer practice a threat, thus always said no. But Dean had watery memories of John when he was a regular, happy family man, working the 9-to-5 with friends, hobbies, and dirt under his nails instead of rock salt, motor oil staining his clothes instead of blood.

Dean wasn't so sure if that he was the lucky one.

It had been a disastrous three months since Sam had left college, and the wounds were still raw. John plunged forward, attacking a relentless string of hunts with little breaks for the past eighty-two days. Dean was running on fumes, frayed nerves and a weary spirit. They'd finished a hunt in Oklahoma, both of them relatively uninjured, which was as fortunate as they got these days. John drove the Impala, steering it east with no direction and Dean sat in the passenger seat, wishing they were going west, towards Stanford, wishing Sam was in the back seat. John glanced at Dean, all stubbled jaw, popped collar and concealed eyes, and smile slyly.

"Sir?" Dean questioned, not lifting his head from his hand.

"Nothin'," John replied, mischievous.

Dean stifled a groan, hoping he wasn't about to be roped into a training exercise or even worse, sparring with his father. The man had twenty years experience of hand-to-hand, actual war stories, and believed all lessons should be learned the hard way.

"Get some rest, Dean." The smirk stayed on John's lips and Dean didn't question it. He hadn't felt light and unburdened since Sam had bolted.

He fell asleep, wishing he knew what was making his father grin like a Cheshire cat when there were no werewolves--his father's favorite prey--to kill.

Dean found out roughly four hundred miles later when he woke up to the Impala turning heads of appreciation as he methodically drove through the parking lot.

"We're here, son." John said.

He blinked at the bright colors blurring his vision. Idly, Dean wondered if he were hallucinating as his eyes focused on rows of cars—not bloated minivans and clunky sedans that that littered the roads like unimaginative steel cages—but honest-to-God _muscle cars_. He salivated at the red Thunderbird parked thirty feet away, the lime green GTO next to it. He turned his head as a grey, 1964 Mustang shined obscenely in the sunlight. His heart fluttered happily at Dodge Charger to their right. "So there's a heaven…" Dean wowed. He turned to his dad, trying to button in his excitement and glee, "What's haunted here?"

John squinted at him when he exited the car, stretching and cracking his stiff joints. "There's this new-fangled thing called fun. All the kids are doing it these days," he bent over and leaned back down to catch Dean's eyes, "thought we could give it a shot."

Dean gaped at his father like he was possessed.

John stared at him, serious.

Dean nodded warily, face slowly rearranging into a smile. "Fun, huh? You think I could get hopped up on goofballs?"

John grinned, this time showing teeth, "...just stay away from the dope."

"Yes, sir." He chuckled as he got out of the car.

He popped the trunk and dug through his duffle for a clean shirt. John shrugged out of his Army green jacket, putting on a simple button-down. Dean stuttered with disbelief when he left both 45s and his knife in the hidden armory. Dean settled on the black sweater of Sam's. It was a bit wrinkled and smelled of exhaust, but it was clean with no holes. He unarmed as well.

John and Dean spent the day, admiring the sleek bodies and powerful lines of classic cars, accepting compliments on the Impala like it was his own.

It wasn't one of those fancy car shows organized by auto executives. It was a down-and-dirty ode to the cars and the people who drove them held in the parking lot of the local fair grounds. Cars were parked in the St. Louis sun, people barbequed, and tailgated, sharing food and stories and beer. There were girls in short skirts and rickety booths raffling off stupid prizes like beer can helmets and armchair toilet seats. Dean couldn't describe the warmth in his chest or the flutter in his stomach that made him smile like a schoolgirl as he watched his father joke and interact with people, unarmed, and as unguarded as he ever got. They drank beers and overloaded at the food booths, eating spicy shrimp and amazing chicken grilled in a rotisserie-on-wheels and beer from local breweries.

They stayed the night, when the lanterns and colored lights lit up the fields. Dean was pleasantly tipsy, leaning against the back of the Impala. He watched as his father talked to a woman, fidgeting and twirling his ever-present wedding ring, loyal to a wife that had been dead for almost two decades. Dean wasn't sure if he was proud or saddened. Still, he winked at her when his father left them, and joined his son on the back of the car, watching the lights and stars flicker in the darkness. "Get the digits?" Dean asked casually.

"Nope, made a deal. Remember that Charger you liked, the red one?"

"Mhmm," Dean said, opening another beer.

"I bought it."

He nearly choked on his beer, sucking it down his lungs. He coughed, sputtering on the alcohol. "Come again?"

"A man should have his own car, Dean…" John kept on talking about how he could put some love into it, paint it black if he wanted, but Dean tuned him out. He was blindsided with an odd combination of unfettered gratitude and surprising disappointment. The car beneath him was more his home than the ratty motels or the homey bi-level in Lawrence or even Bobby's junkyard where he and Sammy spent several winters and summers as kids. He'd slept in the backseat, curled up with an ever-changing Sammy like puppies. He'd watched the snow fall and spiral on Christmas mornings, lost his virginity to Virginia Yang in Missouri. It's sun-faded vinyl and the hum of the engine was more reassuring than anything Dean had ever known. But John was giving him something, and that was more important. He smiled stiffly, around the lump in his throat, and forced himself to listen as John's voice dipped.

When Dean met John's eyes, he tore them away, staring at the moon or the glint of its light off the roofs of a thousand beloved cars. "I..um…Dean, and I don't…want you to…think that I'm not proud of you. Or that I want to keep you with me…under lock and key. Sam's gone…and it doesn't look like…he'll be back. But…you can go if you want."

Dean's back stiffened and he squirmed under his skin at his father's dysfunctional outpouring of emotion. The knot in his belly softened and twisted into a flutter of nerves and he scratched furiously at the label on his sweating beer bottle. Dean had almost left, after John had thrown Sam out in that rainy July night. He'd packed his things three days later, furious, and ready to some serious California sunshine. But stupid logic sliced through his anger, and he realized his father needed him more than his independent, freak of a brother.

"I'm in this fight, Dad, 'til the end."

John laughed flatly. "That's what I'm afraid of, son."

"Dad, if I wanted to go…I would have left. With Sammy."

John's eyes chanced a glimpse at this oldest son. "You can go…whenever you want. Put down roots, ya know? Date a nice girl."

That was scarier to him than the things they fought. "Maybe one day."

"Well, you wanna take a look at the car?"

Dean nodded curtly, and slid off the hood, catching the keys John tossed at him. They felt warm in his hand, familiar. He glanced down at them, and then back up to his dad in slack-jawed shock as he saw they were John's keys to the Impala. "But the…Charger..."

"…is for me." John said with a soft smile.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, looking back at the only place he'd ever called home, and cursed the sting in his eyes. "Dad…" he whispered, clutching the keys.

Winchesters didn't do soft or play up a chink in the armor. Dean was grateful it was dark and they had both drank their weight in beer. John shoved his hands in his pockets while Dean stared in awe at the right fender of _his _car. "You loved this car your whole life, Dean. Hell, you were made in it. It belongs to you."

"Thank you, sir. And _ew._" Dean mumbled to the dirt. Overwhelmed.

John stepped forward and patted Dean on the back letting his hand linger before pulling him slowly into a hug that wasn't manly with back-slapping, but bruisingly tight and fiercely tender. Dean pressed his nose into his father's shoulder, breathing in the smell of leather and ebbing grief. "I'm proud of both my sons," John said strongly. "Don't you ever think I'm not."

Sometimes, John Winchester was pretty freakin' awesome.

They broke apart and shifted awkwardly. "I'm gonna stick around here a few days. Work on the car." John said. "Why don't you take your baby out, and stretch her legs?"

The next morning, with the sun at his back, and his new car purring happily, Dean headed west.


	2. Wishing on Wrenches

Wishing on Wrenches

Sam was acting strange, Dean thought, as he watched his brother devour a plate of puffy tacos with mild pride. The bigger Winchester always had an incongruously small appetite, and sometimes Dean didn't know how he managed to grow so tall eating stolen French fries off Dean's plate and skipping meals. But now that something had kick-started Sam's hunger and he was eating like a man his size should, Dean was worried.

Sam took a gulp of water, wiping his fingers with a soiled napkin and snagging the waitress of the festive Mexican restaurant. In decent Spanish, he ordered another plate of food. He crunched on a tortilla chip, catching Dean's eye. "What? Something on my face?"

"I'm just tryin' to decide if you have a tapeworm."

He blinked in confusion. "I'm _hungry_."

"Really? After half-dozen puffy tacos and half of my quesadillas, I thought you were bored."

Sam shrugged his tremendously broad shoulders. "I like Mexican food."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Is today Understatement Day. No one told me."

He wondered if he should ask him if his eating was some sort of bizarre reaction to his crisis of faith Sam had from the lack of angels from their last case in Rhode Island or the "I might have to kill you" confession back in Oregon, but he decided against it. Cleaning a few plates wasn't the most destructive way to cope by far, even if it was stretching their already paper-thin budget. They sat in silence until Sam's second plate of food—nachos with shredded pork and black beans—came and he starting eating and making some serious happy noises. "Should I get you two a room, some mood music, light some candles?" Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam flicked him off, and never stopped eating.

"Before we started dating, Jess and I used to have pig out nights sometimes when we were stressed out or…burned out from studying," he confessed finally coming up for air. "We'd order a bunch of entrees and share them. California has fantastic Mexican food."

Dean smiled with relief, glad someone was feeding his brother at school. Memories about Jess popped up rarely, randomly, like Sam wanted them for himself. He appreciated it when he shared them. "You guys were friends first? Such a girl, Sammy, seriously."

Sam rolled his eyes and hunched over his food again. Dean was stuffed after eating two full-sized quesadillas and a dozen taquitos, but he ate anyway when Sam pushed his plate to the middle of the table, sharing a bit of the past.

**

The worry that had wilted from Sam's memory of Jess blossomed again a few weeks later when he woke up to the fumbling clatter of a falling lamp. Clutching the hilt of his hunter's knife under his pillow, Dean opened his eyes, scanning the room for suspicious movement. All he discovered, however, was his brother, sitting up in his own bed, braced over the nightstand, breathing raggedly. Dean abandoned the knife, turned on the light, and crouched down next to his brother. "Sammy, hey, you okay?" Sam's eyes were pinched shut, sweat glistened off his forehead, but his skin was oddly cool to the touch. "Nightmare?" Dean ventured.

Sam didn't answer, just continued his heaving breaths, gripping the rim of the nightstands with white fingertips. Dean's face concealed the concern knotting in his belly, "too bad you couldn't have a dream about that real-life ballerina we interviewed, huh? She was really bendy."

Sam's breathing evened a bit and he released the death-grip he had on the nightstand. Dean placed a hand on his back, and fought not to rub. A shiver whipped through him like a trail of tumbling dominoes. Dean sighed, and wished that he could free Sam of the spirits that haunt him. He hooked his chin over his brother's shoulder and breathed with him like they did when they were kids. Suddenly, Sam stood up, shucking off his wet shirt. "I'mma shower," he mumbled, shuffling towards the bathroom.

Dean sat on the bed, staring at the bathroom door, confused, concerned. Sam's nightmares effected him a variety of ways—anywhere from leaving him nauseous and shaky to sullen and mean—but he'd never been stupefied by them like he was now. Ten minutes later, Sam came out of the shower, trailing humidity behind him and crashed in his bed. He pushed Dean off the mattress with his gigantic feet and a pillow-muffled laugh, trying to pretend he was alright. And Dean let him.

The inexplicable bingeing was ramped up the next morning. Sam washed down his Denver scramble with a tall stack of chocolate chip pancakes and a fruit cup. And it was days and thousands of calories later before Dean given Sammy enough space to work through his issues before intervening. That morning he got up early, preparing for the ambush in the shower. He wasn't sure of how strong Sam's…faith was, but he didn't think one murdered priest turned vengeful spirit could shake his brother's hard-fought beliefs, but he'd seen people stumble and falter from a lot less. And it wasn't like Sam wasn't struggling with a lot more like their father's death or immunity to weirdo demon viruses.

Dean stepped out of the bathroom to find Sam's bed infuriatingly empty, and a note fluttering to the floor in Sam's loopy writing: "Be back."

"That's IT, Sammy." Dean said with a growl, booting his duffel across the room.

He hadn't pushed. He'd given Sam his patience, understanding and all that other squishy, self-help yoga bullcrap that Oprah and Dr. Phil loved to yammer about, and he was _done_. As much as Sam liked and needed to talk, he could conceal things just as well as Dean, and that added to his mounting anger. With a glance out the window to see that—thankfully for Sam's kneecaps—he hadn't taken the Impala, Dean stopped treating Sam like the man he probably was, and more like the little brother he'd always been. A few unspoken rules of privacy broken and Dean had logged onto Sam's ID of their computer, laughing as he checked the history in Sam's computer. He'd been looking for Google searches on "faith" or "angel" or even directions to a local church, emails to the few friends he still talked to. What he found were sites linking him to , , , and sadly, no porn. But something wasn't right, so Dean continued to snoop.

By the time Sam came home, it was well after dark. Dean was stretched across the bed, soaking up the free HBO, idling between anger and fear after search came up fruitless. Sam slinked through the door carrying a pizza and a case of beer. Peace-offerings. Dean's glancing at him appraisingly, trying to see if he was okay. "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do," he squawked in his best Ricky Ricardo. "Where were you all day?"

"Sorry for taking off…that took longer than I thought it would. I got dinner though. Your favorite."

Dean didn't miss that Sam didn't answer his question. "Meatlovers?" Dean perked up, smelled the hot cheese and the salt of sausage.

"International Meatlovers," Sam amended proudly, lifting the lid, "Italian sausage, Canadian _and_ American bacon."

"You sure do spoil me, Sammy," Dean purred. Dean hadn't eaten all day. Sam set the pie on the table. Dean abandoned his trepidation and dug in.

Now that he was less than a foot away, he could see that Sam's eyes were subtly squinted, like he had a headache, and his upper lip shimmered with sweat. "What's wrong, Sam?" Dean asked, his voice deep and serious. "And don't say you're fine, you know this is a long time comin'."

When Sam's face nearly crumpled, the rock in Dean's stomach became a boulder. "I can't tell you yet." Sam said petulantly, but there was a strength behind those words that Dean had to admire.

"Why not?"

"…because…just give me another day…then I'll tell you." Sam sensed Dean's dissatisfaction, and he tried to smile reassuringly. "Eat the pizza, Dean."

Dean had had enough of the charade. He set his slice down and grabbed Sam's arm as he tried to retreat. Before he could say a word, however, Sam winced, pain marring his face. "What the..." Dean slapped Sam's hands away, flashing him a no non-sense scowl, and yanked down the zipper to his hoodie, gingerly eased it off. Sam dropped his head in defeat. Dean's stomach plummeted with fear.

Both of Sam's arms were bandaged at the elbows like he'd had a ton of blood work done, and there was a larger pad of gauze just under his arm, taped to the meat his muscle that disappeared under his wifebeater. There was a plastic bracelet on his wrist. Dean looked at Sam with wide eyes and a dry mouth. "Please tell me you've started shooting up."

Sam said nothing, closed his eyes slowly, running his fingers through his hair. He ignored Dean, putting the hoodie back up and zipping it carefully.

"Answers. Now." Dean gritted out, heart hammering in his chest.

"I felt a l-lump...and it hurt, so I went to the ER this morning...and they ran some tests." He spat the words out like they were poisonous. He didn't want to carry it alone, Dean realized, but he'd tried.

Dean forced a breath, instinctually not liking the path this was taking.

"They think I have cancer, Dean." Sam said matter-of-factly.

Out of all of the things Sam could have said, that was the very last thing he'd expected. His heart seized within him, lurching pitifully as his lungs fought for breath. He gripped the edge of the chair, willing his knees not to buckle, so that he wouldn't swoon like those ladies in the soap operas. "Tell me everything the doctor said. Word for word," Dean ordered. "They actually said the word 'cancer' to you?"

They stumbled to the foot of their beds, and Sam nodded grimly. "They biopsied the lymph node. He said that biopsy was precautionary, but with other symptoms…he's thinking some kind of lymphoma or leukemia."

Dean hated the way Sam said those ugly words so comfortably like he was already resigned to chemo and radiation and suffering. "Wait…what other symptoms?"

"Night sweats."

Dean tasted bile, "the other night?"

Sam nodded and continued with a grimace, "Fevers—I've had a few. Fatigue—we're always tired, ya know? Weight loss…I've lost about…twelve pounds. I just thought I just wasn't eating enough…"

"The eating…" It was all coming together—a horrifying, malignant puzzle. Dean felt guilty and baffled at how he'd missed it.

"I didn't know either, Dean. It's just thought it was stress until I found the 'node," Sam said, reading his mind.

Dean tried to regroup and forcibly stamped down his own panic. Sam was fine. He was the epitome of health with his stupid salads and the vitamins he was pressing on the Dean. With the 9,000 crunches and chin-ups he did every morning. With the freakishly huge body that was all muscle and not an ounce of fat. "It'll be okay, Sam."

"Fifty words of Latin won't get me out of this, Dean," Sam said, voice tight with terror.

Dean shook his head. Sam was falling apart and he didn't know how to keep him together. Sam was in a place Dean had never been. There was no big brother wisdom for this one. Dean forced a smile anyway. "You won't need it, Sammy. The doc's just covering his bases. I might have to crack his head a little for scaring you, but he was just being…thorough." He licked his lips. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have come with you. Ya know, school Dr. McScary on his bedside manner."

Sam reached out to clutch Dean's arm like an anchor with fever-warm hand. "I didn't want you to worry."

Dean laughed with irony. "Bang up job you didn't with that, kiddo."

He looked up, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Sorry. I didn't think it would turn in them cutting things out of me."

Dean sobered, pushing that image from his mind. "When will we know?"

Sam wiped his leaking eyes and sniffled. "They wanted me to stay overnight, but I just couldn't be there…they said twenty-four hours, give or take."

Dean nodded and forced a smile. "Well, we'll have to do something cool to distract you, okay?"

"Yeah, find something for tomorrow," Sam said. "No strip clubs," he amended at the start of Dean's leering grin.

Sam was shaken, exhausted and feverish, and Dean coaxed him into his favorite pajamas—a Stanford tee-shirt and sweatpants—and into bed. Sam curled up on his side, sighing with apparent fatigue that Dean only realized had been constant for the last few months, but his eyes stayed open, focused on Dean. "You didn't eat the pizza," he whispered, sounding all of six, when he liked to make Dean breakfast.

"Will it make you feel better?"

"Yes."

Dean promptly starting chowing down on the almost cold pie, anything to oblige his brother. They didn't speak again that night, silenced by what strange new future awaited them tomorrow. The Winchesters had fought they supernatural for so long, they'd forgotten about the world's natural evils—the unrealized dreams or the cancerous monster lurking beneath in the skin, in the blood.

Sam was soon fast asleep, languid limbs sprawled, the same chuffing snore he had when she was a baby. Dean's life was segmented into two very distinct chapters: Before the Fire and Before Stanford. Before the fire, Dean's memories were hazy and colored with exaggerated emotions of a child. Dean had never prayed, but Before the Fire, he used to wish. On everything. He wished on his daddy's wrench before he tightened a bolt on the Impala; folded potato chips—usually for a puppy; all the stars in the sky, the letter magnets on the fridge. When his mother was pregnant, he'd wish on her swollen belly. They'd wanted a girl, called the belly Claire, but Dean wanted a brother. So he'd climb up on his mother's lap, finger sweeping the wobbly, alive belly and wished for it—for Sam--harder than he'd ever wished for anything in his little life.

Dean's hands hovered lightly over his decidedly larger brother before settling on his chest. And because Dean Winchester, After the Fire and After Stanford, didn't pray, didn't believe in God or even Heaven, he _wished _for the health of his brother. Wished that even if he did have cancer, it could be magically transferred to Dean's body. He wished until the nauseating panic he could push it away, and was lulled to sleep by the hiss of his little brother's breathing.

They spent the day like the birthdays Dean never had growing up; like he'd always made sure he arranged for Sam. They went to breakfast at a local dinner, went to the movies, capped off by a night at the batting cages. They laughed and joked, never mentioned the cancer.

When Dean looked at Sam swinging the bat like he was Babe Friggin' Ruth all he saw were the muscles that rippled and twitched and the powerful, graceful and dangerous way he moved. All signs of strength and vigor. Another glance—the high pink in his cheeks, the generous mop of brown hair that grew so fast, Sam just stopped cutting it. The ball Sam clobbered bounced off the far plexi-glass wall with a thunderous clap that drew stares. He glanced at Dean with a toothy grin, waving him over. "Cracked the bat," Sam boasted with a disbelieving laugh.

All too soon, Sam they were back at the hospital and the bright cheer on Sam's face had dissolved into dark misery and wan complexion. Dean was the epitome of calm on the surface, placing warm hand on Sam's rocking knees, telling him dirty jokes to take his mind off the mind-numbing waiting. Beneath the surface, the layers of his coat, Dean was sweating, heart racing, sick to his stomach. In the recesses of his mind, he was screaming every curse and spell he could think of, railing against something he couldn't kill. The fear was escalating and snowballing and by the time the nurse called them back, Dean felt like he was going to explode behind the relaxed face and loose stride. The doctor sat behind the desk, face locked on the paperwork as if he was just now seeing it. Dean suddenly realized if Sam was sick, he'd have no money or insurance to take care of him. He clamped his teeth together, choking down bile. He'd already thrown up twice. Sam was fine. Sam was fine. Poltergeists and vampires and some freak demon virus couldn't take down his sasquatch of a little brother, a few mutated cells didn't stand a chance.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting so long, Mr. Calloway, but I have your test results here," the doctor said. "We ran a full battery of tests…as you know, and thankfully, the biopsy was benign. Your white counts were a little..."

"So…I'm okay?" Sam asked breathlessly.

"Well…not exactly. You do have mono, but…"

Sam laughed, like he had at the batting cages, tickled. "Seriously? I didn't even get that in college."

He smiled, and nodded. "This was the only diagnosis I was actually happy to give out today, Samuel. Of course, you'll need lots of…"

The voices trailed off into an indiscernible hum in the back of Dean's mind. The knot of worry that had been snowballing and filling him up for the past twenty-four hours suddenly broke, cracked like glass. The ridiculous relief splintered his masterful poker face, and Dean heard a sob echo against the narrow walls of the physician's office. He stood up, mortified and stumbled for the door, the metal castors of the chair dragging loudly against the tile. Dean huffed for breath, pushing aside strange hands. He just needed to open the door or a window. Dean tore at his collar, stripping off his coat before careening into the hallway that was a gleaming white and windowless. He paced the length of it, heart racing and mind strobing with images of Sam bald and colorless in a hospital bed, Sam coughing, slipping away, Sam being pumped with poison. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes that were buzzing and wet, trying to laugh it off, but it came out mournful and maniacal.

Dean broke completely, bowing from the overwhelming fear, the obstacle dodged. He could feel it now that the cancer had been averted. How close this one was. His knees buckled, and he realized that strong, healthy arms were around him, holding him. A soft voice was crooning, "I'm okay, Dean. Let it go. You can let it go now." Sam dropped with him in the hallway of a hospital, where doctors, nurses and patients watched as he cried with the same recklessness and freedom that he'd hunted with. Sam was there, holding him through it. "I'm fine, big brother, I'm fine." His voice changed, deepened. "No, ma'am, I got him, he's okay. Take a breath, Dean, before they start sticking tubes in dark places." Sam whispered, big hands rubbing his chest.

He coughed, choking on a laugh before he inhaled.

Ten minutes and too many tears later, Dean was blotting his leaking eyes in the bathroom he'd been so desperate to find earlier, staring in the mirror at his face that was horribly splotched with crimson. He still hiccupped sporadically. Sam watched him quietly as he continued to scrub his cheeks with cold water, hoping to make the puffiness recede. "You look like the girl in the chick-flick after her boyfriend dumps her," Sam said softly.

"Rub it in, asshat." He whispered. He was tired, but felt lighter, unburdened, and it almost cooled the bright burn of crying in front of an entire hospital. But Sam was leaning casually against the sink next to him, completely cancer-free, and he couldn't feel a lick of shame. "Can we go now?"

"Waiting on you, Julia." Sam placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and left it there.

"If you hug me, I'll break your arm," Dean seethed, pointing a threatening finger at him.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Meg Ryan," Sam smiled.

A sharp elbow to the ribs shut his brother up. Dean ignored the glances as he walked through the carpeted office floor of the hospital, and smiled softly at the nurse who'd tried to help Sam with him earlier. They headed out the hospital, away from the maddening nightmare. Dean felt just as happy and special as the three-year-old who wished for—and got—a little brother.


	3. When Dean Met Lucy

When Dean Met Lucy

Dean Winchester was scared. It wasn't the cold-tinged terror of being pursued by evil, because that would actually focused him, sharpened his senses and strength, so he could get the job done. No, it was the shifting, twisting, irritating fright that he felt when he had to step across that bolded self-imposed line and function in society. "This is stupid, Sam." Dean whined into the phone. He was hunched over the trunk of the Impala, painfully disarming. The kid had planned the whole thing, dressed him too, and somehow wearing a tie and a freakin' sweatervest in the Impala broke few of Dean's cardinal sins.

"You know I'd do it if I could, but…" Sam's voice crackled with disappointment over the line.

Dean placed two 45 mms and his hunting knife in the trunk. His face was hard, but his voice softened at Sam's bruised tone. "I know you would, but your knee is all banged up. And I really don't mind," Dean lied, even though he was grimacing like a child approaching the dentist's chair.

"You're a bad liar," Sam said, but Dean's dishonesty earned him a chuckle from his injured, depressed brother. Dean put all the change he had in the parking meter and entered the florist's shop, cringing at the cloying smell of thousands of roses in the every girly color imaginable.

"What kind of roses should I get?"

"Jess didn't like roses," Sam sighed, "so I don't know. Just not carnations."

Dean browsed the rack, ignoring the sting of the Valentine's Day mark-ups. He winced, knowing that this was just his second Valentine's Day after the death of his girlfriend. "What did she like?" he asked, pushing softly on the wound he knew would never heal.

"Orchids," he whispered. "I always got her potted orchids. She usually killed them, but ya know, practice makes perfect."

Dean scratched his head as he stared at the racks of flowers, and finally caught the attention of an excitable florist, who began plucking and picking and arranging a bulbous bouquet. Dean narrated the entire thing to Sam, who seemed amused that Dean could stand up to evil personified, but was powerless against an overzealous older woman. Dean hung up on his brother's raspy laughter, and left the store with an absolutely enormous arrangement filled with every flower in the store and that cost more than their weekly budget. With apologies to coolness of his car, he nestled it down into the front seat.

He arrived at the office building by late afternoon and parked in the visitor's lot. He shuttered involuntarily at the thought of a life of cubicles and proposals, lattes and lunch meetings. He didn't want to do this, but for her, he would have done anything. Given her in the Impala or an arm. Taken a stroll over molten lava. So Dean figured he could be her _valentine_. "If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it, my way."

Despite Sam's constant barbs, Dean wasn't vain. He knew that women seemed to like his eyes, his lips, his muscles, and he knew how to make himself look good. The tie and the sweatervest went into the trunk. His collar was loosened. His leather jacket glided on, collar up over his gray dress pants and white button down. He felt cool, and possibly rugged walking into the building that was as unexpectedly luxurious with blown-glass sculptures and slick marble floors. He'd charmed his way through the expansive security (which he couldn't figure out what it was protecting), another boyfriend delivering flowers, and up to the sixth floor.

Dean didn't need his hunter's skills to find her immediately, even with prison-like rows of cubicles and the distracting bustle people in business suits and ties. She was standing in a glass room with a clutch of women, who were talking and laughing. Lucy was smiling, but the laughter, Dean saw, was forced, feigned. She turned her head slightly, hair flowing freely, and her dark eyes locked on his. They flared with such surprise that it lit up her entire face. And there were no signs of the traumatized, bloody girl she was months before. She moved towards him, still the most beautiful thing Dean had ever and would ever see. He rolled his eyes comically to the giant bouquet. She pointed to a desk, and he gratefully set it down.

He smiled and leaned down to chastely kiss her on the mouth. "Happy Valentine's Day," he grinned, pinning in the laughter.

She hugged him, pushing up on her tiptoes and fisting his leather jacket. His arms went around her easily, and he lifted, quite literally sweeping her off her feet. It was cheesy, stupid, and mushy, but it was the least he could do for the woman who'd saved his brother's life.

**

_Dean was terrified. But he embraced the fear, knowing it would dull the pain, and hone his strength. When chaos and the mind-scrambling fog of unconsciousness made things fuzzy, blearily, he'd counted on the fear to get the job done. What started as a presumably routine daylight sweep of a warehouse they thought was harboring the poltergeist they thought was slashing up frat boys had turned into an ambush by a corporeal beast. The thing— Dean had only seen its furry flank and knobby claws—had scuttled down from the rickety rafters, waging war with a cry that was pure evil embodied in sound. It was on top of him and under him, smothering and slashing because the evil could never engineer a slow, clumsy killer. It managed to grab him around the waist, and like a mother with a curious toddler, bodily haul him up and away. Dean groped for his knife, since his gun had been swatted away, and viciously stabbed the thing as he started to climb up the wall and before Dean realized he was falling, he'd hit the hard concrete of the warehouse floor. His entire left side exploded, bones and blood bursting like visceral fireworks. Colors dashed in front of him, blinding him with concussed colors before he passed out._

_But the good ole fear had him crawling, groping for his gun, ignoring of the blood licking down the side of his face or that his left leg didn't work quite right even before he remembered where he was or why his head hurt so much. Heart clamoring like a freight train, pumping energy and strength through a body Dean knew was broken and weak. He pushed himself up, weaving and limping until he could manage a wobbly but determined run. He had to move. He had to move fast. __Because he and Sam had split up._

_It took him hours to sweep the building's first and second floors with a swelling face, an uncooperative leg. He'd found the blood on the second, puddled and pooled, and too fresh to convince him it wasn't Sam's, he'd followed the foreboding splashes of crimson to the third floor. He heard garbled whispers, and a muffled sob that was too shrill to be his brother's. He moved towards the noise slowly, trying to hear anything besides his own haggard pants and violent heartbeat. Dean focused on a ragged voice, "pull the…slide bac'…if u have t'shoot…use both hands…don' figh' the recoil…" _

_It was Sam, and Dean risked peering around the corner. Through garbled vision and half-light, he saw Sam collapsed in a knot of his own limbs. He shook and rocked and fidgeted the way he did when pain crescendoed beyond his disturbingly high tolerance. Dean could make out something compact and small hovering over him, focused his right leg. Dean almost shot. Finger flexing over the trigger, but it jerked, following Sam's line of vision and lifted its head, all dark eyes and face lit up with terror. It was just a girl with matted hair and body trembling with fear. A second later, she had him in the sights of Sam's gun, hand trembling but arm rigid with determination. The other hand was pressed against Sam's thigh, applying pressure. _

_Sam's hand was gripping her tiny wrist, pushing it down. "No, no…m'brother," Sam whispered. "Dean."_

_Dean was sprinting now, stubborn leg be damned. If Sam was injured enough to surrender his gun to a novice, he was in awful shape. The gun was immediately dropped and her hand returned to its place on top of the other one, adding more pressure until Sam gurgled through clenched teeth. "God, Sammy," Dean gasped as he saw the puddle of blood under his right leg, the belt looped around in a makeshift tourniquet. He touched him, peeling back his jacket that was tacky with blood, checking his pulse. "I see you can pick up chicks anywhere." _

_Sam's face was twisted with pain, skin pasty, shoulders trembling as he worked to breathe. "I'll teach ya sometime," he mumbled, peeling his eyes open. _

_Dean glared him, knowing he was too out of it to realize the ridiculous irony. "That thing...did ya get it?" _

"…_clipped it…'s too fast…it hurt you?" _

"No, _I'm okay," Dean said, noticing that his awareness and strength were fading faster now that he knew Dean was okay. "Just take it easy, stop talkin', Sammy." _

_He eyed the girl, knowing from the dark horror in her eyes that she'd seen a real-life monster and he hated that the that plane of reality had been broken for her. But admired her being able to fight back, fight for his brother. She seemed unable to speak, trying to answer his questions, but only managed strangle grunts and nonsensical sounds. She was shaking so hard, she vibrated. He gave up, focusing on the place where her hand was pressed into the slashes in Sam's leg. The slashes deep into the muscle over the artery. He looked at her then, taking in the blood that covered her face, her clothes, painted her hands, Sam's pants, and the floor, and his chest suddenly ached with the gravity of Sam's injuries. He slipped a hand into Sam's, brushing his sweaty hair back. He lifted his head to those dark eyes, beautifully black, but ebbing nothing but mortal fear. For Sam. She mouthed something he couldn't decipher. So Sam—who was slipping away—couldn't hear, but Dean already knew. If she moved, Sam could bleed to death. _

_Dean called an ambulance, kept his fingers on Sam's pulse and thought of a thousand different ways to kill that evil son of a bitch who'd nearly killed them all. The girl never moved, never twitched, until the paramedics promised her it was okay. Only then did Dean realize—guiltily—that some of the blood was hers._

**

Lucy Gannon was like no woman Dean had ever met. Just knowing her last name had given him more knowledge about her than half the women he'd been with. She didn't have fake nails or even fake breasts (not that she needed them). She didn't wear too much make-up. She wasn't obviously pretty, but lovely in a way most women weren't. She read _Entertainment Weekly _and ate candy bars, according to the contents of her desk drawer. She didn't fall for his lines or his pouting. She knew his big secrets, and yet still liked him, anyway. And the weirdest of all—the thing he couldn't wrap his mind around—she wasn't scared of or embarrassed by him.

She wore brightly patterned dress that was pink, black and white. Arms covered with a coordinating pink sweater. She studied him for a moment, eyeing the scruffy hunter in her corporate workplace before she pulled him to a quiet, private conference room, waving off the amazed looks and jeers from her peers. Without a word, she stepped forward, close enough so he could smell her perfume. Her arms encircled him and Dean grunted when she brushed the .45mm he couldn't leave in the trunk. "I can't believe you brought your gun, Dean. You should have left that in the trunk."

"The safety's on," he grinned. He'd felt vulnerable without it even in a soul-sucking place that would probably bore evil to back to Hell.

It was Dean's turn to eclipse boundaries. He peeled the wool of her sweater down her shoulders, fingers sweeping the webbed, darkened skin of her right upper arm that spilled beneath under the cotton of her dress. "I will if you will."

She glared at him, mouth tight.

Dean left with his gun; Lucy wore her sweater.

They went to a trendy restaurant that Sam would actually hustle pool to afford. The kind that spazzed out over Valentine's Day, and filled every inch with roses and pink and red and purple ribboned balloons and made the waiters dress up in heart-patterned shirts and ties. Dean sat, strings of hundreds of balloons tickling his shoulders and ears, and took it as Lucy took pictures of him on her cell phone. "Sending those to Sam?" He scratched his ears.

Dean jerked at the shrill cry and didn't even have to turn his head to know that another couple had gotten engaged. It was the third in an hour. Even his hamburger came _defiled_ with edible flowers.

"Mhmm. He called me right after you left and begged me too."

Dean made a mental note to kick Sam's ass when he got back, but liked that Sam and Lucy were close, always in contact. "He wanted to come, but he's a little banged up. And ya know…with Jess..."

Lucy's face flashed with knowing grief. "Yeah. We talked. It's fine, Dean, when I said 'Man, I'd like a date for Valentine's Day', I didn't mean drive four states over and, like, not save lives for it. It was just a wish."

"It was only three states, and consider me your personal, armed genie." He sipped his beer, swatting the ribbons out of his face. "The real question is why do you need a thug like me for a night on the town?"

She shrugged and picked up her drink. "I trust you."

Dean's heart warmed, but at the same time, he worried for her. He knew that victims struggled with knowledge that the things that actually do go bump in the night. He'd seen the extremes. He _was_ the extreme. The last thing he wanted was for Lucy to retreat from the person she had been, or even worse, become a hunter. "You want to dance?" He heard himself saying. He'd show her what a regular life could be about.

She lifted her eyebrows in surprise, purple and white ribbons pooled on her shoulders, candlelight glittering in her eyes. "You don't dance."

The last time he genuinely slow-danced with a girl was in high school, and only because Melissa Simmons had the biggest boobs in the sophomore class, and a slow dance brought them in tantalizingly close proximity. But it was Valentine's Day, and Lucy was a romantic. He stood up, swaddling his gun in his jacket and left it on the chair. He offered his hand to Lucy and she took it with a dazzling smile that made it worth it. They mixed in with the other couples, rocking and swaying to the music. And for a moment, a fleeting second on a stupid, Hallmark holiday, Dean Winchester pretended that's all they were.

**

_Her name was Lucy Gannon. _

_She was five-two and 110 pounds. _

_She was born on July 26__th__. _

_She was twenty-four years old. _

_She was African-American. _

_She lived in Seattle. _

_S__he had saved Sam's life. _

_Dean sorted through the contents of her purse, hoping to discover something about the woman who'd plugged the knick in Sam's femoral artery for almost two hours. The woman who kept him talking. The woman who'd taken his gun and was ready to defend him. _

_He found a receipt and a wrapper. She liked fancy café hot chocolates and chewed a lot of Winterfresh. He sighed, leaning back in the chair, and dizzily watching the buzz of activity in the blood center. "Your wife's?" A kind nurse asked softly, nodding at the cloth, sequined purse in his lap. She checked the bag that was steadily filled with Dean's blood. A pathetic effort at trying to replace all the blood they'd transfused into his brother. _

_Dean tucked her license back into the wallet, and cleared his throat. "Uh…yeah, just holdin' on to it for her. Car accident," he said, gesturing to the bruises on his face. The lie slipped off his tongue, and Dean was glad that instinct still worked. _

_It had been thirty-six hours since they were attacked by the monster that had mauled Sam and Lucy and slashed Dean's pride to bits, and Dean was still reeling, still trying to grab onto to something familiar, so he wouldn't feel like the victim he was. He finished the donation, drank the juice and ate the cookies the nurse gave him, and limped on his sprained hip back to Sam's room._

_The kid still looked awful, pale down to the lips and shivering lightly with the infection-induced fever. Dean could remember a dozen times of Sam looking just this side of death, monitors flanking his bed, and he died a little bit with each time. He sat down on the bed, gently sweeping Sam's hair back on his hot forehead. Sam twitched, jerking from the contact of Dean's freezing hands. Dean shushed him, dropping and arm across his body. "The girl is…she's doing a lot better. She's going home tomorrow. Her name's Lucy. Every time I go to her room to return her purse, someone's there. So she's got a lot of family." He relayed, knowing if Sam were awake, he'd call him on his excuses on not seeing Lucy. "Everything went south, huh, Sammy?" He asked rhetorically. _

_And he was amazed at how quickly it had unraveled. Dean couldn't even finish the hunt, couldn't kill the beast himself, not with Sam still in the hospital, sick and weak after the surgery on his leg. He'd called Bobby who called in grizzled hunters Dean wouldn't even mess with. They swept the building, binding the evil inside, and then blew it up. The hunter was not used to being the hunted. The rescuer was not used to being the victim. The perfectionist wasn't used to the messy hunt without the kill. Dean was in a freefall, hating the feeling of helplessness, hating that he didn't have control. Hating that Sam hadn't been lucid in more than a day. _

_For the first time in a long time, Dean remembered why victims were so thankful, why after saving their lives or that of their loved ones, they offered him their life savings, wedding rings, even cars to attempt to show their gratitude. Suddenly, the wall that he'd erected between himself and normal had been demolished. By a slight young woman with awful timing and a heart of gold. He looked at Sam, seeing him as an infant and a child and a burgeoning man all at once, and was thankful for every breath he took, every beat of his heart, every unconscious moan and grunt that told him Sam was still fighting. He simultaneously regretted every ignored holiday, those lost years when Sam was at Stanford and Dean was too proud to visit, every stupid fight they'd ever had. Dean sighed, taking his hand, wiping his stubbornly leaking eyes. "This is stupid…" he mumbled before breathing, "I love you." He didn't know the last time he said it, but he had vague memories of diapers and pacifiers. He needed to say it now. "I love you, Sammy."_

_Sam's sweaty head rolled in towards Dean's voice, tubes and wires almost tangling with the minimal movement. Dean watched as Sam's licked his dry lips, too weak to open his sunken eyes. "…love you, too…" _

**

Thanks to the free cocktails a thrilled father-to-be bought for the whole restaurant, one dance turned into five and an otherwise uncomfortable evening for Dean, the misfit, turned into one of the best nights Dean had ever had without Sam. One that ended with them at the movie theater in a freakin' mall watching Matt Damon overcome tragedy to find the love of his life. And Dean didn't mind just watching the movie, Lucy pressed against his side in one of those nifty loveseats the nice movie theaters had. He'd planned to leave that night, but followed Lucy up to her clean, colorful apartment, flopping on the lime green couch out of reach of his gun. They talked for hours about anything, and nothing. They watched bad reality television and ate freshly baked cookies.

It was 4 a.m. when Dean yawned and Lucy was cocooning him in blankets on the couch and digging out an extra toothbrush for him.

The couch was comfortable and long enough where he could almost stretch out completely.

But he didn't stay there long.

Eyes snapping open at the muffled, nonsensical sounds—soft huffs of breaths tinged with wordless, hysterical relief. He was up, gun in hand, without a second thought. The only demons he'd found, however, where the kind that couldn't be killed. Lucy sat on the edge of her bed, looking stricken and tired, rubbing her scarred arm with practiced movements. She looked at him, barely startled by the gun. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Bad dreams."

Dean nodded knowingly. "Got some experience with those."

"It doesn't happen a lot," she promised.

In the half-light and her tank top, he could see almost all of the scars. The jagged gashes on her chest, shoulder, and upper arm to elbow. They weren't from the monster, but being tossed into windows. She'd at least been spared from the infection that nearly killed Sam.

Lucy's head flagged in defeat between her shoulders and Dean set the gun down, sweeping her long hair back over her shoulders. He cupped the back of her head, like she had at the hospital when he couldn't find the words to apologize, to thank her, and just sank against the bed, offering his company.

"Lay down," Dean said.

Lucy climbed into bed, snuggling under the covers. Dean did, too, inching towards her. He wrapped her in his arms, hoping they were secure enough to stave off nightmares.

"You do this for Sam, too?" She teased, soft voice cutting through the twilight.

"Sammy loves a good cuddle," Dean said, grinning at Lucy's amused snort. His arms swept over the unerringly over the puckered skin.

"I don't regret it, Dean. Going to there that night. It's been hard, but I never wished it didn't happen." Lucy confessed drowsily.

Dean didn't know how to take that. He didn't know what to say. He'd never wanted to drag civilians into their life and their knowledge, but Lucy was an extraordinarily good thing in a life that was dominated by evil. So he settled on, "I'm glad we met; hate the way it happened though."

"Me too," Lucy sighed. She sleepily added, "don't think you're getting laid because you're in my bed, dude."

"I'm a complete gentleman," he replied without a straight face.

Dean had never actually just slept with a woman, but Lucy was all soft skin and sweet smell. She held onto him like he was a treasure, and not the man who got her mutilated. It was wonderful in way he'd never admit. He watched her for a while before he drifted off too. Neither of them dreamed. Neither of them moved.

He woke up to the alluring smell of beef and coffee. Remembering he was in mixed company, he rinsed his face and swirled with Scope before he stumbled out into the kitchen. Lucy smiled when she saw him in jeans in a little tee-shirt, scars still uncovered. "Sit, sleepyhead." Dean obediently thumped down onto tone of the stools overlooking the open kitchen and he almost squealed in delight when she served an absolutely beautiful plate of steak and eggs with black coffee. "Thanks for putting up with all that girly stuff yesterday." She said gratefully.

"It's not every day someone drags you into a Meg Ryan movie," he shrugged it off, and then tore into the ribeye. It was cooked to salty perfection. Dean appreciated good food, and this gave him goosebumps. He regarded her earnestly. "Marry me," he gasped, mouth full. "Marry me and come on the road and make me this fantastic steak every morning."

Lucy was amused. "You like it?"

"Like it? I want to be alone with it."

Lucy laughed, proud and sat down next to him. "You'll just have to come back then. Door's always open, Dean. For you and for Sam."

They ate breakfast together. It was nice and simple and painfully easy. He could see what Sam had been searching for when he'd left for Stanford, what he'd found and lost with Jess, what John wanted to build when he married their mother. Dean mocked normal and rejected it, knowing he wasn't built for it. But also because part of him ached to be.

He left, reluctantly, knowing he'd miss Lucy and her sunny attitude and beautiful smile and the break from hunting. They lingered at the doorway, and he couldn't help but bookend the day with another kiss. This one not as chaste as the first. He tapped a fist against the doorway and stared down at this first and probably only valentine. "If things were different, I wouldn't be leaving," Dean said truthfully, lips pressed against her ear before he ventured down the hall.

At a gas station just outside of the city, he changed out of his dress shirt and pants and into a well-worn plaid one with a faded blood stains on the sleeves and a missing pocket and his jeans. He armed himself with both guns, his knives and crossed back over the line, back to being a hunter, and wasn't surprised that it seemed a bit thinner.

He was shockeded, however, to arrive at the motel to see Sam across the street playing a game of full court basketball with neighborhood kids, running and leaping like friggin' Michael Jordan on a knee he'd been limping and whining about less than twenty-four hours ago. "Well, that lying sonofabitch."

Dean flopped back in the seat, smiling a little from the understanding that his freaky, hopeless romantic, emo brother had been playing cupid.


	4. Winchester Knows Best

Winchester Knows Best

Dean didn't believe in anything he couldn't see, touch or kill. He'd never been awed by magicians or fortune tellers, because they were nothing more than con-artists, using sleight-of-hand to weasel gullible people out of their money. He relied gut instinct, but they had been honed by years of experience, not by some mysterious, hocus-pocus vibes people had in romantic comedies and on "Oprah." Everything he subscribed to—the supernatural and the dirty, ugly truths of humanity—were because he'd seen it with his own two eyes or done it with his own two hands. Dean Winchester never considered himself anything but awesomely and ordinarily human with no freaky psychic mojo any kind of sixth sense.

Unless it involved Sam.

His little brother made him break the few hard and fast rules he doggedly lived by. So, Dean didn't question that niggling twitch behind his eyes and the pull in his stomach when it told him to turn the car around, and punch it down the suburban Palo Alto street, back to Sam's apartment building. He didn't hesitate to bolt into his brother's apartment building, despite the fact that it was cloaked in the black of smoke and the red of flames.

He raced into Sam's bedroom, the heat literally shoving him to down like the magnetic jolt of a demon, and saw Jessica's body pinned to the ceiling, bleeding and burning, Sam screaming on the bed, unaware of the room ablaze around him. Dean stood frozen, watching as the fire melted Jessica's hair and singed her ruffled nightgown before the foreboding growl of the wood around them catapulted him to act. He dragged Sam off the bed and bodily shoved him through the door, fighting to save his brother's life as Sam clawed, twist and hollered in a furious attempt to save woman he loved. They tumbled out into the fresh air and Dean doubled over, trying to cough the out of his lungs and breathe in clean air at the same time. His eyes watered as he hacked and wheezed. Sam ducked out of Dean's grip and started for the stairs. Lunging, Dean snagged the back of Sam's shirt, grunted when Sam elbowed him in the back, and nearly cried when Sam continued to shriek Jessica's name. They tussled relentlessly on the front stoop as the fire engines wailed in the distance. Desperate, Dean roughly pinned Sam to the hot pavement. He grabbed his brother's cheeks, using all of his strength to hold him down, to force him to see it. Sam still kicked and scratched, pushing at Dean's shoulders, trying to buck him off. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. She's dead, Sam. She's dead."

He expected Sam to punch him—to lash out at the closest thing to him (and he would have willingly taken it)—but Sam just whimpered, and went limp beneath him. The fire glinted in his eyes as he dropped his head against the walkway, coughing and crying. Dean stayed ontop of him as the firemen raced to the building, brandishing useless hoses and determination. He shoved Dean off of him and stumbled across the street, leaning against the Impala and watched his world burn to the ground.

Dean flanked his brother's side as he was tended to by the paramedics, talked to by the police, and avoided the reporters. Dean's chest ached from the bookended tragedy that even he couldn't miss. The scene that had defined his entire life, was being replayed again, right down to the fluid blue and red of the sirens, the inky black of the car, and the broken man leaning against it. Jessica, blonde and happy, had died just like their mother, on the same day as their mother. He felt sick. He felt scared. He felt _guilty_.

Sam was fiddling with the guns in the secret compartment of the Impala's trunk. Dean stood beside him, searching his face as he stared at the weapons, the ammo, the fake IDs. To a regular man, holding a gun could feel weird or dangerous. To a grieving one, it felt like a solution. With deft hands, Sam loaded the gun and cocked it. "We've got work to do." Sam seethed, slamming the trunk closed.

**

Dean was remarkably proud of his brother as he endured the emotional upheaval of the funeral. The Moores said goodbye to their daughter in a beauitful cathedral with a vaulted ceiling, every daisy in California , and even more mourners. Sam sat in the front row, with dry eyes and a straight back, as everyone from her childhood dance teacher to her weeping siblings told stories and bid her farewell. Dean could barely stand the raw displays of emotion, but Sam took it with a stoic face and a set jaw. Dean looked at him anxiously, wondering when he was going to break. It took their father two weeks to break. After the funeral was over and the grief buffet was gone, he splintered like some delicate thing. Dean was the one who learned how to change diapers. Baby Sammy was the one who learned to tolerate cold formula.

But he never did, not even when Jessica's mother, poisoned by loss, couldn't look even look at Sam, because he was unharmed and alive, and her daughter wasn't.

He didn't not even the next day when he had to say goodbye to his friends, who all hugged him tightly and begged him not to leave.

The most terrifying thing for Dean, beyond the resurrected memories of his mother's death, was that Sam, his sensitive, college-educated, emo little brother was keeping the rage and the grief caged, where it would fester and swell upon itself to become a monster even they couldn't slay. He'd seen it happen with their father, with victims, and he would be damned if it happened to his Sammy.

They left on a beautiful Thursday morning, and drove day and into the night. They were just outside of Nevada when Dean pulled into a motel, just wanting to get Sam off the road and into bed. It was Dean's favorite kind—a rundown joint with a cheesy theme and magic fingers on the beds and lots of neon lights. He knew Sam, who'd always craved the comforts of home, would find it obnoxious, and hoped for one selfish moment, he'd whine about the décor.

Dean gathered their things and wearily entered the room with Sam behind him. He tossed his bag on the bed and closed the door, chaining the door and lying down salt lines.

"I hate motels…" Sam mumbled as he remained frozen, eyes locked on the faded purple carpet and tacky gold wallpaper.

Dean ran his fingers through his short hair. "We'll be gone in the morning, Sam."

"I hate motels," Sam said again, but his voice was watery, cracking.

Dean whirled around just in time to see Sam's resolve shatter, his eyes darken and his skin pale. Sam dropped his bag filled with clothes and toiletries they'd picked up at the local Wal-Mart, and let out a sob in agony. Dean took a step towards him as he drew in hitching breaths, chest heaving. "Sam, calm down."

Sam backed against the door, crying and screaming. Sam backed against the door, crying and screaming so fiercely and painfully, it was beyond words. It was grief, personified.

Dean stepped back when his brother shifted from quiet confessions to explosive actions, winced as his brother hurled a lamp at the wall. It shattered like fireworks of cheap porcelain. Dean held back his own tears as he threw table, shattered the mirrors and glass with an unloaded shotgun, and splintered chairs against the furniture too big to hurl. He ignored the screams and protests about the noise, and waiting Sam out, knowing he needed it. Exhausted and devastated, he skittered forward, collapsing on the ugly carpet.

Dean was at his side in an instant. "Okay, Sammy, okay."

"She's dead, Dean. She burned...like Mom."

"I know, Sam."

"I can't…I can't do this."

Dean lifted a hand, risking a touch. His fingers brushed the top of Sam's shoulders and he hissed as if he'd been burned and scrambled away, crawling towards the bathroom. Dean closed his eyes as Sam threw up in the sink. He hadn't eaten much in the past week, but he gagged and retched just the same. He stood up, giving his brother room for as long as he could stand it. As soon as he was within reach, Sam latched on to Dean, hugging him for the first time in years. "I can't do this, Dean."

"Yes, you can, Sam. I'll help you." Dean whispered, embracing him. His eyes were wet.

"I wish it was me," Sam confessed.

Dean closed his eyes. He remembered that feeling, too. "I know."

"She was going to be an art teacher…and we were going to get married…and she wanted to go to Paris and we…planned it all."

Sam's legs buckled, and Dean fell with him, never letting go, even when he knee smacked against the doorframe. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"I was so stupid, Dean…thought I could leave it all behind. I thought I could live a good life."

Dean held Sam tighter, shaking from the sheer force of the grief and rage shot out of his brother. "You deserve a good life, Sam."

"I hate motels," Sam said again. Motels were where you went when you didn't have a home or when you couldn't stand to be reminded of what was gone.

"Let's go," he said, standing up and somehow heaving his giant, boneless brother with him. "Get your crap, come on."

Sam wiped his face with his sleeve. "Where?"

"We'll figure it out, come on." Dean weaved around the destroyed hotel room and grabbed their luggage.

Four hours later, Dean found himself awkwardly jammed in the backseat of the Impala, holding a blanket-wrapped, hiccupping Sammy. Like he'd done shortly after a nightmarish night in Kansas more than two decades ago. Then, it was an oblivious, bundle of a baby who curled up with him. Now he held a man who had to twist and contort his long legs just to fit in the backseat.

Dean sighed around the lump in his throat that he'd almost become used to. He'd wanted a lot of things for his brother, Jess and Stanford were only the start. And as much as he'd missed him, as much as he'd hated how he left and the rift it caused between him, Dean thought Sam would be safe at school. He thought the evil that had touched their family was as random as a lightning strike. He thought he'd never see another night like he had when he was four years old, and his happy, colorful life blew away in a puff of ash and a stroke of evil.

He closed his eyes, aching for his mother, for the magic he didn't believe in the make everything right or even some faith that something bigger than him would make it better. And he let a few tears of his own fall, because Dean Winchester knew better.


	5. Ghosts of Hunter's Past

I hate that it took so long for me to finish this story. It's very long and kind of took on a life of its own. It wasn't the easiest story to write because it paints Dean in a very different light, and therein lied the struggle. I am trying to update regularly, because I know I hate waiting on good fic. Thanks so much for reading! I also love knowing what you think. Good or bad.

Oh, if any of you were at the SPN Convention, and handed your bag to a girl outside the photo op room, it was probably me. And um, yeah, being a wall away from Jensen and Jared without actually seeing them or hugging them, pure torture. :)

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The sun was searingly bright when Dean remembered nothing but darkness. The air was clean, smelling of trees and flowers, when he recalled the fetid stink of evil and the tang of old blood. Dean Winchester was slumped back against the comfortable seat, of his beloved Impala when he had flashes of shackles and ropes binding him. He was dirty. There was blood beneath his fingernails, encrusted the soft cotton of the button-down beneath his leather jacket. His head pulsed and throbbed with a distant pain that the vivid sunshine made all the more near. Strangely, he was keyed up, motions wild and unchecked by adrenaline. But the one thing he could focus on and what his mind, festooned with cobwebs and forgetfulness, knew how to fix was his stomach-rumbling, hand-shaking hunger. With a wheezing sigh, he dragged his weary, aching body into the grocery store in search of food, and tried not to panic about not being able to remember where he'd been or what day it was.

Dean lived in the thick of the most horrific evil the world had never seen. He looked in it its luminous black eyes, and fought it with everything he had. He walked shoulder-to-shoulder with death and decay, and even managed defeat the Grim Reaper a few times. He knew that with every kill, a bit of him died too, hardening and growing all the more cynical and detached, like his father, but it seemed like a small price for keeping families whole. For keeping children from becoming him. He made an effort to make everything a joke, to find the levity in whatever he could, and eventually learned to like the nuances of his unconventional life. He'd lived it for twenty hard years, and nothing shocked him anymore. Not until he'd turned into the junk food aisle, and saw a woman, her eyes beetle black, dragging a little kid through the grocery store.

Dean's blood chilled. He was dizzy with fear. His heart slammed against his breastbone as he realized that no one noticed the possessed woman, reeking of sulfur and gin, tugging an innocent child around the store. If demons were anything, they were audacious, but he'd never thought they could go this far. He dropped his basket, contents spilling out across the aisle, and approached the thing gun drawn. With deft movements, the kid was tugged behind him, all terrified eyes and little body. "Don't think I don't know what you are," Dean seethed. "Let the kid go, Snake Eyes."

The woman screamed, horrified by the gun, her demonic eyes darting between the weapon and the child Dean was protecting. Weakly, he was aware of the other patrons, ducking for cover, dropping baskets, running to safety. It was better for them to be scared of the freak with the gun than be anywhere near a kill-happy demon.

But it was doing a fantastic job of playing the traumatized victim, shaking and panting and cowering. She called to the child like she was beckoning a dog. Dean knew he couldn't shoot her, and he wasn't sure what to do. He patted the kid's shoulder reassuringly, grimly noting that the child had wet himself out of fear. "Run outside, kid, you're safe now. I'm going to help your mother."

The kid's big, brown eyes darted to his mother, who was nodding frantically. "Go home, baby. Momma will be fine. Go NOW!"

Dean started. He knew the tone. It was burned into his subconcious. _Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Now Dean. Go! _It was the chilling demand of a parent trying to save a child.

No demon could duplicate that.

A blinding pain licked across his skull, oily stars popped through his vision. He blinked to shake it off, and when he looked at the mother again, over the sights of his useless .45, he saw nothing but a slight, sobbing woman, on her knees, piercing green eyes wide with fear. He was inundated with sparks of memories—the gurgled screams of pain, the dead woman by the stairs, a pristine green sofa and floral wallpaper splattered with crimson. Dean recoiled back into a shelf, aware of the pain it caused. "'M sorry…so sorry." Dean stammered, backing down the aisle.

He'd heard the wail of approaching sirens and tucked his gun away and left the store, hobbling to his car. Gunning the engine, he pulled around back, easing down an alley and through the town's side streets to avoid the police cruisers. With blurred vision, he ambled towards the interstate, and sped out of town.

He put hundreds of miles between him and the grocery store, ignoring the eerily black eyes of other drivers, the gas station attendant, the baby in the motel lobby.

He locked the door, sealed the perimeter of the hotel room with salt, armed himself with the shotgun and holy water, and started researching.

He knew from the smear of colors when he turned his head, the nausea cramping his belly and the purple pain that radiated from the side of his head that he'd hit it, hard. He knew that a concussion could change and bend the reality around him. His trusty, handmade EMF meter told him that he wasn't haunted, and hadn't picked up a cursed objected. His eyes told him the shadow of the woman flickering in the shadows and ratting the locks on the door was real.

So he huddled between the beds and the walls, and waited for the ghosts of to make its move or reality to right itself again, so he'd be free of the ghost of the woman he'd killed.

Sun and shadows moved. Pain doubled, intensified. The thing haunting him gained more strength as if it was sapping it from Dean.

The deskclerk at from the motel's main office called once he'd turned the maid away twice, but Dean stopped answering the phone. Then she'd started banging on the door.

Dean just calmly asked to be left alone. Then jammed a chair under the door, ignoring the flash of cold and the bloody woman starting at him with cold eyes. He turned the TV on when she started talking. The bang of guns on the cops shows made him jerk involuntarily. The blood from the medical shows made him puke bile all over the floor. So he settled on the Food Network, only jerking mildly when knives sliced through raw flesh. He'd heard of ghosts that could latch onto someone, drive them mad. And this bitch was winning, whittling his sanity away with efficient speed.

Finally, when the deskclerk threatened to call the police, and Dean was shaking from more than just fear, he crawled to the door, peering outside into the hum of dusk.

"Can I call anyone for you?" She asked. Dean didn't look at her eyes, kept them trained on the salt peppered carpet as he shoved bills through the door, praying she'd leave him alone.

"No. I'm fine." Dean failed at pulling off the lie.

"Call someone, sir, okay?" She said. And Dean's heart tugged at the kindness in her words. He pushed the door shut, knees buckling as soon as could throw the deadbolt, and he sank down, braced against the wood.

He could his reflection in the full length mirror off the opened bathroom door, saw the bruises spotting his forehead, his greasy hair, and eyes so dark they looked just as black as the ghost standing next to him. He barely recognized the gaunt, filthy mess of a man staring back at him.

And because he was sick and hurt and delirious, he relented, knowing he was defeated and too far gone to be ashamed. He picked up his phone and dialed without looking. When Sam picked up, Dean tugged at his unkempt, gritty hair, clinging to sanity. His eyes burned once he heard Sam's voice, strong and sunny, "Hi, Dean." He could hear the laughter of people—girls—around him.

"Sammy…" Dean blurted out, broken. He ignored the burn behind his eyes, the consequent wetness on his face.

"Dean...what's going on?"

He couldn't do it. "I just…um…Sammy, how's Stanford?"

"You're calling to shoot the breeze?" Sam scoffed. There was a tense stretch of silence. "Where are you?" Sam asked with gruff-voiced concern. And Dean almost forgave him for even leaving for Stanford right then and there just for knowing him enough that he didn't have to verbalize how bad off he was.

Dean didn't even know. He groped blindly for the tag on the door behind him, biting in a curse as the ever-present ghost lurched and leapt about the room and literally breathed down his neck, snarling next to him. His heart had been beating so fast for so long, and every jerk and fright ached. He squinted at the tag held in his shaking hand, "Garden View Inn, Pine Grove , Oregon , Room 14."

"Be there as soon as I can. Dean, can you hang on until then?"

He didn't think he could. It would take at least fifteen hours for Sam to get to him. "Yeah, Sammy."

Dean snapped the phone shut, growling at the stupid ghost sitting beside him, throwing up curdled blood. "You're really freakin' annoying."

He leaned his head back against the wall with an audible crack, canister of salt in one hand, whiskey in the other, and waited.

There were infinite kinds of evil, and Dean had seen them all. He'd seen what the tragedy of death left good men permanently twisted. He'd seen the literal hearts of good men eviscerated by evil, and knew that human will was far greater than the sum of its parts. He'd held the lifeless bodies of children who hadn't been spared from the evil he had been or even worse, died because of his own shortcomings. He knew that people could be just as evil as the thing lurking in the shadows. The ghosts of hunter's past descended upon him while he waited, reminding him of all the suffering that existed because of a determined and pissed off nine-year-old realized who'd he'd never get the mountain bike he'd wanted or live the life everyone else got, and he refused to be angry about it anymore.

He'd embraced the life of skeevy motels, ever-intensifying danger, and grisly solitude before he was old enough to shave, because he wanted to be a badass hero like his father. And now he was broken for it. Dean endured the parade of his failures, the lives he couldn't save, the people he'd killed. And the broken loved ones left to carry the burden of fatal absence. He'd seen other hunters bow and then break from it—their minds sick and scarred. And now he was one of them. Whimpering and shaking in the corner of his own personal hell as the memories were projected back, re-staged like a Broadway showing of the ultimate in macabre, in visceral detail.

He cringed away from the murder of a businessman in Des Moines he couldn't save, whose death cries he'd heard from months in his head. He clapped his hands over his ears at the sobbing screams of a woman he'd been trapped with on a ridiculously gruesome hunt for a Wendigo. He cried from the death of his own mother—not the real thing—but what Dean had imagined since that fated November night. Sam was there too, and even though he was suffering through stitches and stab wounds, breaks and black-eyes, it was the one thing that cleared his sick, sick mind from the onslaught; it was a thread of hope in a tapestry of despair, because Dean had gotten him through it. And that battered, too small little boy was now a man in a prestigious college that wanted him so bad, they were paying for him to be there.

But it was a relentless show of his grim ineptitude, and it was severing the already weak toehold he had on his sanity, shredding his nerves with unbelievably pain. His heart raced his chest and his breathing careened towards hyperventilation. Dean was too far gone now to even care that he was unglued, weeping like some swooned woman in a soap opera.

Dean whimpered like some pathetic thing when the watery form of Mark Simmons crouched next to him. There was a nasty poltergeist in his house, and he believed Dean when he told him, wanted to protect his family from any threat, even supernatural ones. He was a scrawny wholesale florist from the 'burbs who probably was skittish around water-guns. Dean thought he'd get himself killed, but Mark wouldn't take not NO for an answer and Dean recognized that steely flash in his eyes. He'd fought hard, helping Dean with the banishing spells, even protecting him with the shotgun when the ghost made its final, powerful surge. And they'd defeated it. Both were left unharmed. But it had gutted his fiancée who was hiding in the attached garage. Two days later, Mark, darkened and drunk from the grief, tracked Dean down and shot himself in the head as soon as Dean opened the door. Dean had personally scrubbed the gray matter off the otherwise pristine roof the Impala and didn't even have the strength to pretend he wasn't crying.

Seeing it all over again would kill him. It had taken a lot of booze and even more sleepless nights to remove it the first time. "Mark, don't please." He mewed to the figure loading the gun, reliving its horrific destiny.

He snarled in Dean's general direction, flickered and strobed a few times, and then the gun already in his mouth, eyes wild and wide. If he pulled the trigger, if Dean had to see his death one more time…he wouldn't survive it. He tried to burrow closer into the wall, head ducked down in submissive avoidance. He sang Metallica and freakin' _crawled_, too weak to stand. Wherever he went, the ghost followed like it was tethered to him by nefarious magic. He closed his eyes pulled his knees up to his chest, his heart was speeding up, and he couldn't even decipher singular beats anymore, it was just a drone of pure, painful energy. Dean held his breath, hoping he'd pass out. He nails dug deeper into his hands when the trigger was cocked, the glide of metal as loud and destructive as thunder.

But the gunshot sounded more like the slam of a hollow door. Followed by a merciful silence. For a second he thought he was gone, lost in the abyss he'd been fighting for what felt like years. But his deadened senses were coming back to him. The garbled, eerie wails and moans fell away and Dean could hear actual words. He could feel the weakness in his body, the weight of his limbs. He could feel the throbbing in his head, and the hands on his shoulders. Cool fingers cupped his jaw, sweeping down his face to gently lift it.

"Dean? Hey, hey, hey, Dean, look at me, man. You all right?" The man looked like Sammy, which was impossible because Sammy was a kid.

But his presence pushed away the demons, and let him think and observe. It felt like waking up from a decade-long nightmare. His nose immediately picked up on the stench of whiskey, sweat and vomit. His eyes flickered around the absolute dump of a hotel room, searching for the ghosts.

"What happened, Dean? What were you hunting?" Sam was crouched down beside him, eyes big and blue and worried, trying to pry the bottle of booze from his hand. "What did this to you?"

Dean let the bottle go to rub his aching head. "…can't 'member…demons, I think."

Sam was unfolding his pretzeled form, and a rush of tingling pain in his limbs pulled another pitiful moan from him. "Your'e a mess, big brother." Sam clucked, fingers pressing on the pulse point below his jaw. "You're burning up." Sam cursed, his busy hands suddenly going still as he dropped his head, analyzing and thinking. When Sam faced him again, Dean knew he had a plan. He knew he was safe. A peaceful warmth dripped over him, like molasses, and his eyes rolled back. The world, and the horror with it, finally fell away.

He'd drifted from a pool of perpetual warm and dark to back to the world with blinding lights, a broken body, and an estranged little brother. Dean had a stubborn streak wider than the Grand Canyon —the only thing he'd inherited from his daddy—and he'd never admitted defeat, never believed he couldn't come out alive. But when opened his eyes back to that faded paisley wallpaper and the fear and pain descended on him again, it was enough for him to quietly surrender again.

Dean wasn't built to ignore his little brother, and always came back to his voice, to his touch, to Sam force-feeding him pills and clucking over the infected burns on his arm and even bathing him in the tub.

Sam's purposely muted whisper brought him back to visceral pain and nauseating weakness. His vision was blurry, even the low light in the room too bright. He winced, and shifted. Bad idea. The movement ignited the pressure in his chest, and for a delirious second as he struggled to breath, panicked, he'd wonder if Sam was sitting on him. Sam was suddenly a lean shadow over him, patting his shoulder and saying words he couldn't hear over the rush in his ears and the chattering off his own teeth. Dean understood the once calloused, but now smooth hand that slipped into his, freezing cold to his fevered skin, though, and he drew in a short breath, huffing it out in a rapid inhale.

He closed his eyes as the same sobering hands gingerly lifted at the shoulders and more pillows were tucked behind him, which helped him breathe.

"Better, Dean?"

"…mhmm…"

Sam disappeared but returned a full three seconds later. Dean heard the clinking of dishes, and soon felt a spoon at his lips. "I know you're not a baby or an invalid," Sam droned, repeating Dean's own disclaimer. "Just let me do it."

Dean could only manage a weak glower before he opened his mouth and accepted the lukewarm chicken broth. "Gross," he groused. "...hate this."

"Well, it's no picnic for me either, Francis," Sam said, feeding him some more. "What were you hunting, Dean, King Kong? Almost took you to the hospital twice. I think one of your ribs is broken, you've got infected burns on your arm and welts on your back...you legs and shoulder are pretty swollen."

"..ya did good, Sammy...feel better." He swallowed, sighing as the stale, warm liquid soothed his sandpaper throat. "...told you can't remember. I got demons ontop of demons...was seeing them everywhere."

Sam lifted his eyebrows in confusion. "Everywhere?"

"...truck drivers...dogs...moms in stores..."

"Concussion?" His not-so little brother guessed.

"...pretty funky one."

For the first time, he'd looked and marveled at the man his brother had become in less than two years. Sammy was still there with their father's eyes, their mother's patience, and those dimples out of left field, but he was a little bigger, a lot taller and incredibly clean cut. College agreed with him as Dean knew it would.

Dean hated college.

"I'm trying to find out what happened to you, and then we're gonna go to Bobby's."

"I'm fine, Sammy. Don' you have school?"

"Now I know you're got knocked around, because you'd never willingly say that."

And finally, he'd felt it all—the fear of what he couldn't remember; the desperation of feeling like he'd break from all of his fatal failures. He closed his eyes at the violent onslaught, breath blocked in his throat. His heart pounded, and like a domino effect, his body because to object, lighting up with pain like a pinball machine. Sam, even having been gone for months, hadn't forgotten the sounds Dean made and was gingerly turning him just as he vomited chicken broth on the floor, and the fabric of his nice khakis. "It's okay, Dean, hang on okay."

The pain flared nastily from every part of him, so much that Dean wanted to cry, felt the niggling heat of tears in his closed eyes, the coolness of them on his fevered checks. And he surrendered again. Not caring what had happened, especially if it kept Sammy away. His resolve crumbled, and he clutched at his brother, twisting at his clothes. "Stay here, Sammy…don't want you…near it."

"Dean, it's okay," Sam said firmly over Dean's wheezing breaths. "I'm not leaving you."

"You can't…don' want you hurt…please," Dean felt crazed, tugging at his little brother with all of the strength he had left. He needed Sam to understand.

The elder Winchester flopped bonelessly against the pillows, head lulling. "Stay wit…me, Sammy. Stay here…" He clutched at the collar of Sam's sweater, locking the joints in his hand like a starving pitbull with a bone.

His eyes rolled shut, tears licking down his face, mixing with the cold sweat that silvered his skin. He felt Sam angle his arms around him, tugging him close.

"I'm right here. I swear I'm not leavin' you. Not goin' anywhere…right here…" were the last words he heard.

Dean had become a man at fourteen. On that hot October day—in the midst of an Indian summer—when he'd made the decision to spend the rest of his life hunting, he'd never looked back. He didn't sit around, weeping and playing the what-if game. He plowed ahead, focused on the goal of killing one evil and ugly before moving on to the next. But now, as he lay limp from sickness and flooded with pain, all he could think about was Out There—the world beyond the familiarity and craziness of hunting. He thought about how he was ten-years-old and he and Sam were trapped in some crappy motel room with nothing but cans of Spaghetti Os and fruit cocktail, and all he wanted was tuna noodle casserole. He decided from watching a rerun of Jeff Smith that he could be a chef. Cooking was barely controlled chaos and danger and exciting with the fire and the knives. Dean was great with knives.

Suddenly, he was consumed with that childhood dream and the unabashed happiness he had when Bobby let him have full reign of his kitchen a week later, and didn't give him anything more than amused grin at the mess on the floor, and inexplicably, the ceiling. People didn't die if you overcooked their chicken. Ghosts don't haunt you if you forget the breadsticks. So Dean watched nothing but the Food Network and dreamt of spending his days worrying about the flakiness of his pie crusts. He knew Sam was worried about him. He'd felt the stares and overheard the whispered calls to Bobby, but Sam had seen him through much worse—a dozen surgeries and a nasty bout of poisoning—and knew he'd deal.

Sam bounded into the room, tucking his phone into his pocket. He was wearing an honest-to-God baseball cap and that shadowed his bloodshot, blue eyes. Dean's watery eyes sank back to the TV. Sam stood in the threshold. Minutes later, the warm, safe cocoon of blankets Dean was buried under were snapped off of him in a flutter of cotton and cold air.

"Get your lazy ass up," Sam said affectionately, but firmly. He patted Dean's shins with a beckoning smack.

Dean groped blindly of the covers, not bothering to muffle a groan of pain. But Sam had other ideas. He gingerly hefted Dean upright and swung his legs so his bare feet hit the floor for the first time in four and a half days. "Go shower. Can't let the pain get the better of you."

Dean's face hardened. He didn't want to move or process. He just wanted to stay numb and safe. He wanted Sammy to stay.

"I found out what happened to you..."

The tremor of his voice made Dean shake his head, and proclaim, "I don't care."

"Yes, you do. Go shower. I'll pack up. We'll talk about on the road."

The choking trepidation of the past few days coupled with the pain was more than even Dean could bare. He looked at a contented Sam, prouder than he'd ever was that he'd gotten out. That he'd stood up to his father. That he'd carved his own path that led away from death and evil and torture. Dean had taught Sam everything he knew, but maybe, Sam could teach him how to walk away. "Let's just get it over with."

Sam seemed to lose his nerve. He'd swooped back in with this newfound confidence and a swagger he'd never had before he'd left. And that suddenly deflated. His shoulders dropped and he looked at Dean with sadness in his eyes. "You sure?"

He shrugged, indifferent. He knew the worst of it. He'd killed someone.

Sam sat down. "Um, well, the journal said you were checking into suspicious murders—family members killing each other. Bleeding hearts suddenly offing their dogs, co-workers…" His eyes flickered to Dean's, and he knew they were flat with unfamiliarity. He didn't remember that.

"Well, Bobby found a hunter who'd come in to do the same a few days before you called me to check out the same thing. He talked to this child…Micah Bradley…you saved his life, Dean."

Dean suddenly flashed on scared too-big brown eyes and the violent instinct to _protect_. "And…how did I do that exactly?"

His younger brother raked his fingers through his hair—a telltale nervous habit—and scratched at the lint on his sweater sleeve. "Micah said his mother was 'crazy' and had 'locked up the man with the cool car'. He said she had black eyes and said bad things. Which is obviously, possession," Sam said, amazed.

Possessions weren't common, the only one the Winchesters had ever heard about was Bobby's late wife, and that was always believed to be a myth. Dean had only heard about it from other hunters as Bobby never brought it up. Ever.

Sam licked his lips, and continued. "She was hurting him, and you stopped her. With the gun."

He'd been waiting for it. The fatal blow wrapped in Sam's trademark sensitive delivery. But he hadn't expected it to burn quite so much. There was a physical pain, one that eclipsed that of his injuries, at the thought that he'd taken someone's mother from them. That poor Micah would grow up without that guiding touch or the sweet voice. That he'd lay awake at night and wonder what he could have done to get his mom taken away. "I killed his mom."

Sam was at his side with no memory of the movement, hands firmly on his back. "I read the reports. Talked to that hunter. She beat and tortured you when you tried to exorcise her. She burned you with cigarettes. She locked you in that house for at least two days. I also saw the reports on the kid. I saw the medical records. She was…choking him when you shot her."

He closed his eyes and tried like hell to remember any of it, but there was only white noise and flashes of feeling. He didn't need the ghosts of hunting's past to drive him over the edge. He'd just needed the truth. The memories he'd obviously blocked out for his own sanity.

Sam's eyes glistened. "There's one other thing," he produced a photocopy of a newspaper article. He'd recognized the grocery store and the panicked patron he'd held at gunpoint. "That woman…the one you thought was a demon…she kind of was. Well, she's an alcoholic, Dean, she'd drove her kid to the store, two sheets to the wind, to buy more booze. She seems to think you were an angel or something. Her kid's staying with her sister while she goes to rehab. You saved two kids, Dean. That's amazing."

Dean twisted, barely feeling the pressure from his abused ribs, and crawled back to the head of the bed, barely heard Sam's worried protests.

He settled on the mattress, pulled up the sheet in what was a very literal waving of the white flag. He didn't know anything else all he knew was that he was done hunting.

Sam talked all the way from Oregon to Bobby's compound in South Dakota . He told Dean about school, adding every miniscule detail he could remember from the smell of the trees and ocean to his lack of knowledge about shopping for food and to his annoyance at other students panicking over trivial stresses.

He painted a beautiful scene of hard work, freedom and the misadventures of discovering the world they'd always been barred from as kids. It sounded seductive and enticing and normal.

"You could come with me, ya know, if you wanted…" Sam casually asked, turning towards him.

And Dean found himself nodding.

The plan was remarkably simple. Dean was going to recooperate at Bobby's while Sam finished out the semester and then they'd find an apartment. Luckily Sam had established legitimate credit in the months he'd been at Stanford, and even managed to save a bit of money.

Dean spent his days helping Bobby tow cars and he even started cooking again, frying chicken and grilling ribs. Bobby had never eaten so well in his life, an with regular emails and calls from an over-the-moon little brother, Dean found himself again, found the passion for life that hunting had given him, found the love for his car and the sun and the trees. After two weeks, he could hold a gun without his hands shaking or feeling like he was going to retch. He still sparred at some bar that had fight clubs on Wednesday nights. He still threw knives to clear his head. But he never thought about hunting, barely missed the job.

Until John appeared in the kitchen, cutting through the milky sunlight like some foreboding figure. Dean stepped back from the stove, towel casually tossed over his shoulder, and felt a chill amble down his spine. He'd texted John, about two weeks ago, but otherwise hadn't checked in. Bobby welcomed John with a beer laced with Holy Water and a pointed look at Dean, urging him to speak his mind. Dean severed the look with a drop of the head, feeling his back straighten as John shucked his jacket and sat at the table.

"Smells good," John said, eyes hidden under the brim of his hat. "What's cookin'?"

"Chili, sir."

"Is it ready yet?"

Dean glanced at the simmering pot. "No, sir, needs to simmer awhile."

"What about you?" John wondered gruffly. "You ready yet, Dean?" The disembodied smirk beneath the shadowed eyes was disconcerting.

"…about that, sir, I need…that last hunt…was...well, it made that werewolf debacle look like a girls' slumber party." Dean hadn't felt the shame that now reddened his cheeks when he'd said the same thing in greater detail to Sam or Bobby. "Demon possession," he said with a grimace.

"That's really what it was?" He actually seemed to light up with pride. "Demon pin you down?" John stood up and to pace the kitchen, boots clumping steadily on the wooden floor.

He had trouble meeting his father's eyes, and focused on scrubbing the already-clean counter. "That's what I hear. Got my bell rung pretty good. Details are sketchy."

John's face changed, and Dean saw empathy and understanding there. "Some hunts can be the worst things you've ever seen, son, but you gotta get back on the horse."

Dean nodded, taking the advice to heart. There was no one tougher than his father. Dean had spent years believing he was a superhero, slightly better than human. "Yes, sir, but…I need time."

John moved closer to him and took the lid off the pot of chili, stirring it gingerly. "I got a lead on a demon myself," he began, like Dean hadn't spoken. "A big one." He grabbed the bottle of red pepper flakes and added a pinch without even tasting it. "I think it may be tied to the thing that killed your mother," John continued.

Dean's heart flashed with cold—the primal, visceral need for vengeance he'd ignored swelled painfully in his stomach. "What? Where?"

"I got word that it might not be targeting random families, but specific ones. And I think I figured out a way to track it---weather signs, electrical storms. It's just a theory…a fetus of a theory, but I may be onto somethin. I'm gonna need your help, Dean."

_Specific families_. His hands clenched and the murderous rage that was almost a pleasantly vague sensation clamored back, fuel in his veins.

"We hunt together?" He asked, lifting his eyebrows hopefully.

He knew he couldn't hunt alone yet, and was desperate enough to lie to bide him more time, but he could hunt with his father again. He'd be fine with a second gun at his back on the trail of the thing that killed his mother. Targeted her. And once they slaughtered it, he could he think about walking away for good.

"Of course, Dean, I need you with me." John was adding salt now. "You're a damn good hunter, son. We make a good team."

Dean leaned against the counter, and thought about how upset Sam would be if he took this away from him. The one thing he wanted as much as his independence. Sam and John had both deserted him, going their separate directions, hellbent on separate goals. Inexplicably, they were both clamoring for him now, and it made his head swim.

Except Sam was going to be tied up at school and with friends until the end of the semester. And there were lives that needed to be saved. Saving one life never made up with not being able to save another, but it would leave some good behind instead of scorched earth and scarred souls, and he'd killed someone. He couldn't ignore that. He couldn't hole up in a junkyard and pretend it didn't happen.

Dean looked up at his father, startled that he was doling out a bowl of hot chili that still needed to cook for another hour. "Dad…"

John looked at him, eyes finally visible and sparking with a renewed hope Dean hadn't seen in years. "I think it's ready now."

Dean took the bowl, and nodded jerkily. "Yes, sir."

Breaking the news to Sam felt something akin to carving out one's own heart and tossing it in a woodchipper.

Sam's face darkened the second he sat down at the table of some overpriced, froo-froo coffee shop near campus and saw the telltale shape of Dean's concealed weapon. But his brother was pre-law, and truly believed in innocent-before-guilty, and let Dean tell him. He stammered through the lies, even though he had rehearsed the speech a few times on the drive over, sharing his nerves with the only family member that wouldn't rat on him.

Sam tried to talk him down, calmly and sensibility. Dean didn't budge under the scrutiny, the stony mask he'd first mimicked then adopted from his father never slipped. Dean was unwaveringly confident in his decision, or at least, he wanted Sam to think so. But his baby brother was the only one's left who was fluent in Dean. Sam leaned forward, the dark blue warmth fading from his eyes, and pounded the table. "Don't insult me by thinking you can pass off Dad's agenda for your own. You talk to me when you can manage to tell the truth." Sam stood up, all new foreboding height and icy stare, and left the coffee shop, ignoring the dozens of eyes following his departure.

He was on his feet in a second, jogging to catch up to his long-legged freak of a brother and dragging him into a back parking lot…a stuccoed wall blocking out all indications of paradise.

It was a Winchester place to have it out.

Sam pushed Dean off his him with his still-oddly sharp reflexes and he stuttered back against the wall, barely registering the blow. He turned into it, landing a flattened side against the wall and felt the air wheeze out of him like a bagpipe. But even a Dean regaining his breath didn't miss the silver of tears in his brother's eyes and the anxiety that was careening off him in waves.

"Sammy…" Sam shook his head, pacing, fists opening and closing like he wanted to punch Dean—a feeling not uncommon—and was barely restraining himself. "Talk to me, kid."

"_You almost died!"_ Sam exploded, from quiet ire to loud, messy emotions. "Don't you get that? When I got to that hotel room, you were beaten and you had a raging infection. You were muttering about ghosts and hunts gone wrong and babies with black eyes. You were in so much pain your teeth were chatterin'. And the worst thing about it is that I knew it would happen. It wasn't an 'if' or a 'maybe', it was a 'when'."

"Sam…" Dean said calmly, still pressed against the wall.

"No! You think I'm here and it's perfect, and it's not—it's hard and it can suck sometimes. But it's a hell of a lot better than crappy motels and even worse food and risking your life for people with no reward. But all I can do is here is worry about you and about dad. And I worry so much it makes me physically sick, Dean," Sam raged. He took two giant steps and he was in Dean's face, pushing him back against the wall. "You know what happened to you. You know what you had. It's why Pastor Jim and Bobby—Bobby Singer of all people—turned their backs hunting. Doesn't that say anything to you?"

Dean let him go. When Sam got himself this worked up, there was no way to stop him. It would be like trying to tame a hurricane. He clamped his jaw shut, and let his brother do what he needed to do. For a Winchester , though, inaction was always infinitely more painful than action. When Sam got quiet, face still remarkably dry even though his eyes were dangerously full, Dean asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to STOP!" Sam hollered. His voice ping-ponged off the brick. "I want you to follow the plan we had until Dad issued an order. I want you to stay here where it's safe. I want to wake up in the morning without this huge knot in my gut because I haven't heard from you in a month and I don't know if it's because you're busy or in a coma or dead. I want my big brother."

Only now did Dean feel attacked. "I'm still your brother. I don't know where you got that selfish streak from, kid, but this is about saving lives. It's about saving people from the hell we've been through. Why is that lost on you?"

Sam shook his head slowly, eyes still glistening. "It never is, but I'm going to resign myself to living a life I hate. I want to help people but not at the cost of my sanity, my life."

"Well, we all can't get full-rides to fancy schools, dude."

"And you can't be a cop? A firefighter? Hell, even a Marine like dad was? There's more evil in the world than just…evil."

Suddenly, the two brothers that rarely fought like other siblings and were never more than a stride away were miles apart, at an impasse. Dean had a duty, an obligation to end the thing that targeted their family. Sam wanted to protect his brother, like Dean had taught him, and for him that meant eliminating the hunt…and the hunt they had yet to finish.

They stared at each other, knowing that their stubbornness and pride wouldn't let the other back down. Dean's face hardened into one of bravado and confidence and Sam's changed too, growing all the more sad, but relenting. Sam shouldered his bag, unarmed and tanned from the California sun. Dean inched towards the street where the Impala was parked and drawing appreciative stares. "I should go before someone boosts my car."

"Yeah, probably…see ya."

Sam turned and ventured down the street, back straight and strong and Dean did the same just in the opposite direction, and it felt like re-patterning a magnetic pull. He'd been trained to follow his brother, not abandon him. Then again, so had Sam. His fingers brushed the pristine paint of the Impala, and he appreciated her dependability. "One day, he'll understand," Dean told her.

He was blindedsided by long limbs as snared him in a rib-bending hug.

"Jesus, kid, warn someone." Dean huffed against his brother's back, squeezing just as hard.

Sam sniffled in response. "Take care of yourself."

He patted Sam's back and pulled back alittle. "I'm not goin' off to war, Sammy. I'm gonna be fine." He pushed Sam away from the car, smiling calmly around the pain in his chest. "Go learn some useless crap, dude. I'll talk to you soon."

"Love you." Sam whispered and let his fingers brush against the Impala before he went again.

"You're such a little bitch, Sammy!" Dean hollered down the street.

"Jerk!" Sam hollered over his shoulder.

Dean drove away, heart fluttering with unfamiliar fear, unnerving frustration and breathless anticipation. He'd hoped he and Dad could put this demon down. He'd hoped he could learn to envision life beyond the hunt. If not for himself, but for Sam.

Life, of course, never adhered to plans or unspoken dreams. For the Winchesters, the meager light could only dim. The hope could only wither.

Three weeks later, when the hunt for the demon had turned to nothing but dead ends, John, restless for a kill, left Dean had to hunt alone.

Two months later, when Dean tumbled fifteen feet down a rock-studded ravine, it was Bobby—not John—who had sat with him in the hospital, took care of him when he was released and cursed at him when he refused to call Sam. It was Bobby who ran John off with a shotgun he'd walked into the house, not to check on his son, but to sober up from a bender.

And it was two very long, painful years later when Sam and Dean would finally reunite.


End file.
